The rider came in from the east with their hole filled crate. Yes, it appeared exactly as one would expect an animal transport container to appear in medieval times. I should’ve figured out right away what critter awaited me inside, but I was lacking caffeine. (Boop Soda, by the way, is loaded with caffeine… thankfully, but I hadn’t had any in a while).

  “Who goes there?” I said to the rider.

  The creepy so and so behind the veil chose not to respond. Instead, they climbed off their mount, and dislodged the crate from the saddle’s rear. Whatever was inside (you already know what it is, but in this moment - like an idiot - I did not) didn’t make a sound.

  Then the black cloaked figure removed the crate’s top. I was delighted to see an African Gray Parrot peeping up at me from his little perch. What a cute critter with his blinking, smiling eyes.

  “Yours,” the bird cooed at me.

  I probably had a smile on my face as wide as a kid’s on Christmas morning.

  I reached down and lifted the little guy from the crate, and he settled on my forearm as if he was made for it.

  “You’re here for me?” I said to the parrot.

  “Yours,” he repeated.

  The rider slung themselves back into the saddle, and took off without even bothering to retrieve the empty container.

  “Thank you!” I called out to them. But, they were gone in a hurry.

  “Their world’s version of FedEx?” I said to Proctor with a chuckle.

  He walked over, flanked by a bunch of the players.

  “Look at this guy, would you?” I said. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  “Indeed, he is,” Proctor said.

  “Yours,” said the parrot.

  “Where’s our Bullpen Coach?” I said.

  Proctor nodded. “Yes, that’s a concern of mine as well,” he said.

  Trevor shook his head. “Who, Hammy?” Trevor said. “You don’t need to worry about him. He loves birds.”

  “I know,” I said. “That’s the trouble.”

  Trevor laughed. “No,” he said. “Not in that way. He’s different. He’s always made friends with them. Used to explore around our cave with a couple of pesters for a long time. He won’t harm your new friend.”

  “What shall you call him?” Proctor said.

  “Horse,” Dillard shouted from a few rows of players back. “‘Tis a great name. Always loved it, ya?”

  “Horse?” I said. “That’s a terrible name for a parrot.”

  “Supposin’ you wanna call him Parrot?” Dillard said. “Morons.”

  “This is how we’ll be making our trades, huh?” I said.

  “You asked, and the System apparently listened,” Proctor said.

  “Eerie, isn’t it?” I said.

  “They’re always listening,” Proctor said.

  “Who are they anyway?” Trevor said.

  “We’ll never know.”

  We put the parrot naming aside for the time being. I took the cute little bird to my container house, and I set him inside, perched on the log and branch shelf Denton had given me. I also had some dried grass laying about, and I clumped it altogether on the floor, somehow thinking the bird might like it. I had no idea. I did like how the inside of my container house was a slight bit warmer than the eight degree Celsius outside.

  We really need to win so I can provide this guy with a more comfortable climate, I thought. Already, I was finding myself inordinately attached, and protective of him.

  When I rejoined the others outside, a bunch of the players had headed off to go back into their giant underground common lair. The excitement it seemed, was over. For now.

  Proctor threw me a worried look. He’d just been in conversation with one of the annoying (and probably evil) Quallon brothers. Speaking of making trades.

  Anyway, Proctor filled me in.

  “They’re not getting along,” Proctor said.

  “Who?”

  “The brothers, the Quallons,” Proctor said. “They’re at one another’s throats to put it plainly.”

  “A couple of degenerate cannibal siblings aren’t friends?” I said. “My heart bleeds.”

  “Might be something to address,” Proctor said. “Nip issues in the bud.”

  “Issues?”

  “Jux says his brother keeps stealing his ball glove, among other possessions,” Proctor said.

  “And, somehow this is our problem?” I said. “They can’t work this out for themselves?”

  “Apparently not,” Proctor said. “Jux says this has been going on for quite some time.”

  “Neither one of those idiots has been a ball player for quite some time,” I said.

  “No,” Proctor said. “He says his brother’s been stealing from him his whole life. I think he wants separate housing.”

  “Ha! Separate housing? Yep, the shipping containers are just growing on trees around here,” I said.

  “Well, in fairness, we could have Kestrel-”

  “I’m going to stop you right there,” I said. “We are not building a house specially for Jux Quallon on his request. That is not happening. Man, this little parrot couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “I had a feeling this might be your reaction,” Proctor said.

  “You disagree?”

  Proctor shook his head. “No,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. I’d just predicted this would be your response.”

  “Well, we’ll call you Nostradamus,” I said. And, a lightning bulb went off in my head. “Hey-”

  “No,” Proctor said. “Not a great name for your parrot.”

  “I really like it,” I said.

  “Probably requires more thought,” Proctor said.

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  “Harsh.”

  “So, what am I to tell the Quallon brothers?”

  “Nothing for now,” I said. “Let them figure it out. Hopefully, I’ll be able to off load at least one of them here shortly.”

  Dillard had been hovering around, I’d noticed. I didn’t really want him to come over to us because he had a tendency to yak and yak and yak, and all I could think about was downing a can of soda. Not that I was interested in conjuring magic, more like my brain ached for a caffeine dose.

  As per usual, Dillard ignored social cues, and interjected himself into mine and Proctor’s conversation anyway.

  “Ya fools should talk to Torag,” Dillard said.

  “What’s he done?” I said. I really didn’t want to know. I couldn’t stand that guy.

  “The boys are disturbed,” Dillard said. “We been in our cave a bunch a days now. Torag’s been bringing in the dirt.”

  I scrunched my face. “What do you mean, bringing in the dirt?” I said.

  “He been carrying clay, ain’t it?” Dillard said. “Little piles. These new slacks you got us. The team slacks? He fills the pockets. Dirt, clay.”

  Proctor frowned trying to understand as well.

  “People have superstitions,” I said. “It’s common in baseball.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Dillard said. “I’m telling you the boys are disturbed. He ain’t right. He’s bringing dirt down to ours. And, he eats it.”

  I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. But, Dillard’s face read as deadly serious.

  “He eats it?” I said. “He eats dirt?”

  “Tellin ya, he does,” Dillard said. “Down it goes. Puts the pile on the floor, pinches it in his fingers, boom… into the mouth. Eats it like pork.”

  “Gross,” I said. I turned my attention to Proctor. “You ever heard of this?”

  He shook his head. “It’s different, give you that,” Proctor said.

  “The boys ain’t liking it,” Dillard said. “Plain bothered.”

  I stroked my chin trying to think of what to say about this. “It’s weird, no doubt,” I said. “But, what do you want me to do about it?”

  “Tell him it ain’t on,” Dillard said. “He can’t be bringing that down.”

  “The clay, and the dirt, you mean?” I said.

  “Yes, ya fool!” Dillard said. “He’s eatin the part you call the infield!”

  I couldn’t hold back my laughter anymore. Dillard looked bothered by my reaction.

  “Ain’t funny, right?” Dillard said.

  “It’s pretty funny,” I said.

  Proctor, as expected, did his best to remain stoic.

  “We can speak to him about it,” Proctor said to Dillard.

  “Don’t wanna know what he’s leaving at the privy hole,” Dillard said.

  “Thanks for that mental picture,” I said.

  “That what?” Dillard said.

  “Nothing.”

  Dillard left us, and the image of downing some sweet, yet sickening soda owned my mind like an undeniable wave crashing ashore.

  “I need a can of the good stuff,” I said to Proctor.

  He followed me from the rear of the park bleachers, west to the Boop machine situated against the giant concrete wall.

  “All in all,” I said, “given who we’re talking about here…”

  “Torag, and the Quallons,” Proctor said.

  “Yes,” I said. “These are problems that basically solve themselves.”

  “Trades,” Proctor said. “You don’t think you’re jumping the gun?”

  We reached the machine, and I pulled a coin from my uniform pocket.

  “Not at all,” I said. “We haven’t done a ton of drills, I’ll grant you, but you’ve seen it yourself. None of these guys are blowing the doors off. Especially, Gill. He’s been fairly terrible.”

  “Subpar, sure. Frankly, I’m amazed everyone’s performing as well as they are considering weeks ago they’d never even conceived of the sport,” Proctor said.

  “And, that’s fine,” I said. “You want to give them credit for that, that’s alright. But, we’ve got a team to run, and the tournament’s right around the corner. Actual games, with actual consequences. We can’t keep giving these guys the benefit of the doubt just because… you know what I mean? The System’s forcing us to take this all super seriously.”

  “I hear you.”

  I plunked my coin into the Boop Soda machine, and a can dropped. Oh, the sweet, wet, cold can. What flavor? Did it matter? Just drink it. My brain craved satisfaction with such ferocity.

  “What kind is it?” Proctor asked. “You scarcely looked.”

  I’d already popped the lid, and the countdown in my vision was on.

  I downed a hefty gulp before nearly choking to death at the nauseating taste.

  “Bah, gah! Oh my. Bloody awful,” I spit some of it out. Then I read the label. “Mango Blue Cheese?”

  “Divine,” Proctor said.

  “Dare me to drink the whole thing in the five minute limit?” I said.

  “Your poor taste buds.”

  Mind over matter. I downed the whole can in a hurry. Then I had a fizzy burp through my nose.

  “Ow!”

  “You alright?”

  I could see from the corner of my eye, one of our relief pitchers, Aston Bale was walking toward us.

  “Man, that stuff is disgusting,” I said.

  “What do you suppose it does?” Proctor said.

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  Aston was still a good hundred feet off when a joke occurred to me that I wanted to share with Proctor. I reached out to him about to speak, but then I saw a horrified look on the man’s face, and he backed away from me as if I’d just grown a tusk out of my forehead or something.

  Wait, had I just grown a tusk from my forehead?

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  Proctor nearly tripped, but he caught himself, and had his back up against the giant wall. Then I watched him glance on both sides of me, and I looked, expecting to see hornets buzzing around me or the like, but there was nothing.

  “You,” Proctor said. “You’re… not… there.”

  “Huh?”

  Aston kept coming, but he’d altered his path, and was headed straight for Proctor. It was as if he hadn’t seen me in the first place.

  “You’re… you’re gone,” Proctor said.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “Gone!” Proctor said. “You’re… invisible.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Stop it. You’re going to freak me out.”

  “That’d make two of us then,” he said.

  I could see from his reaction, he wasn’t fooling around. You just never knew with Boop Soda.

  “You had the whole can, didn’t you?” Proctor said.

  “I’m really invisible?”

  He relaxed a little as the idea must’ve settled within his mind. He came off the wall, and walked back toward me. But, he regarded me as one might in a darkened room. He looked in my general direction, as if unsure where to set his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can’t see you at all.”

  Aston reached us, but he acted as though I wasn’t there at all. Which, to him, I suppose I wasn’t.

  “Might I speak with you on a pressing matter?” Aston said to Proctor.

  Proctor, still a bit bothered, cleared his throat and did his best to ignore my presence. His eyes darted my way a couple of times, however.

  “You may,” Proctor said. “What is it?”

  “‘Tis my bones,” Aston said. “I’ve not expressed it at any time to you nor Adam. They’re not the same as the bones of others. ‘Twas born this way.”

  “How do you mean?” Proctor said.

  I chose to remain quiet, and I held my body as still as I could. I didn’t want Aston to know I was there. It’s true most of the villagers had been exposed to the soda’s magic making properties, but invisibility? I don’t know if any of them had experienced that, and I didn’t know how the young man might react.

  “My bones prove weak and oft sore,” Aston said. “An accident of birth. My mother’s habits while she carried, or so I’ve been told.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Proctor said. “Forgive the impoliteness of this question, but, why do you choose to share this with me?”

  Aston’s face went pale. “I feel things,” he said. “My bones are capable of feeling where as others cannot. I have felt something so urgent, I had to find you without delay.”

  “What is it?”

  “‘Tis all of this,” Aston said. “All of that.”

  He raised his right arm and pointed at the mammoth concrete wall surrounding our entire region.

  “The wall?” Proctor said. “You have a problem with it?”

  “‘Tis not built with strength,” Aston said. “I must warn you. My bones never lie.”

  I had my arms folded, and a frown on my face, not that Proctor could see my skepticism.

  “It’s made from concrete,” Proctor said. “I assure you, it’s pretty strong.”

  Aston’s head swayed. “A grave error to believe it,” he said. “It’s coming down. It is weak.”

  Proctor’s expression mirrored my own. But, he didn’t give an immediate push back.

  “I see,” he said.

  “This wall is not long in its days,” Aston said. “You must take care. This monster will fall.”

  Proctor nodded with wide eyes, and he glanced in my general direction. I’m sure he knew I was still there.

  Aston didn’t hang around, he simply offered his prophecy, and immediately left. I waited until he was well out of ear shot before saying anything.

  “Brittle bones make you psychic?” I said.

  “I knew you were still here,” Proctor said. “I suppose we ought to call Mr. Bale, Nostradamus.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said. “The wall, look at it. Look at the actual scale of this freaking thing. All of it coming down. Could you imagine?”

  “No,” Proctor said, and his voice deepened as grave in tone as I’d ever heard it, “I’d prefer not to.”